


by hook or by cross

by silvernon



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Blood and Injury, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Reader has Daddy Issues, Strangers to Lovers, she is also a kickboxing instructor for little kids. and then also vernon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:55:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29711967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvernon/pseuds/silvernon
Summary: “That hurt,” Vernon says honestly, because he’s the kind of person who speaks his mind, and your lips twitch up into a smile.“Well, you handled it like a champ,” you say, hands resting on your hips, and—okay, he knows you’re mocking him, but his chest still warms at the not-compliment.“I bet you say that to all the boys you patch up,” he says playfully.You cock your head, still smiling. “Only the ones under thirteen,” you quip, which makes him laugh despite the implication.---So you punched a guy, and now he wants you to teach him how to fight (go figure). Well, fine, you say. As long as he keeps his distance (spoiler alert: he doesn’t.)
Relationships: Chwe Hansol | Vernon/Reader
Kudos: 9





	by hook or by cross

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by #19 on this prompt list and cross-posted on tumblr here. also i made a mini-playlist for this which you can find here!

Picture this.

It’s a chilly Sunday night, and you’re free for the first time in the entire week. But instead of being allowed to catch up on your favorite show in the warm comfort of your home, you’ve been dragged out to a hole-in-the-wall bar with drinks strong enough to knock you out with a single glass, _and_ you’ve been forced into the role of designated driver.

The past hour has consisted of telling your friend not to drink too much, shaking your head in disapproval as said friend does indeed drink too much, and then holding her hair back as she retches into a health-hazard commode in a toilet that smells like something _died_ in there. With the strength of that vodka mixed with god-knows-what, you wouldn’t be surprised.

You’ve finally managed to untangle yourself from the situation and have decided to head out of the bar for a much-needed breath of fresh air. You step out of the toilet, thinking that _finally_ you’re home free—and get punched in the face.

The bar falls deathly silent.

You blink, popping your jaw to check for damages, but thankfully whoever punched you doesn’t have a very strong hook. Then you turn slowly, facing the guy who punched you—a pretty thing not much older than you, the ever-loving fear of god (and girls) in his eyes as you turn towards him. His hair is dyed blonde, which would normally be a warning sign except it looks styled, and you don’t see any threatening tattoos which could tell you if he was from a local gang. He stares back at you with puppy-dog eyes, looking much too afraid of the consequences of his actions to be from around here. Probably from the good part of town. Probably harmless.

What do you do?

Now, you have no idea what you did to warrant the punch, but you’re not unused to getting into fights, born and brought up in the meanest part of town. Learning to take a punch was the first thing you were taught once you started walking—the second thing being learning how to land one. Maybe under different circumstances, you would have calmly asked for an explanation, or walked away, depending on the size of your attacker. But right now, you’re tired of having been pushed around all day long, you _do,_ in fact, have a mean right hook, and the night is young enough to fit in one bar fight and maybe a few pity drinks for yourself before it’s time to crash.

So, naturally, you punch back.

There’s a little moment of pity for blemishing such a beautiful face, but it isn’t given much time to bloom before your punch lands true, and the boy is surprised enough that he doesn’t have time to dodge. Your knuckles connect with his jaw with a satisfying _pop_ , and he trips and falls over a misplaced barstool, crashing to the floor in a heap of limbs, both flesh and wood.

Usually, this would be when you’re escorted—roughly—out of the bar and told never to show your face in there again. But you know the owner of this one—a bald, bearded, and tattooed guy whose daughter you teach kickboxing on Monday-alternates—and when you catch his eye over the rows of half-empty beer bottles on the counter, he nods once. So you get your purse, your incredibly giggly friend (because nothing’s funnier than watching a guy get beat up), and leave.

Only later does it occur to you that you might not have been the intended victim of his punch.

In your hurry, you completely miss the part where your wallet slips out of your unzipped purse (from when you were rummaging around inside for wet wipes—the things you do for friendship) and falls to the floor.

And _that_ is how it starts.

* * *

Vernon wakes up with a headache.

Granted, it’s probably because of the glass of dark-rum-ginger-beer-something he remembers downing in one go some unidentified period of time ago, but it doesn’t stop his mind from going to the knockout punch that probably finished the job of putting him out of commission. His vision swims, but it’s just the overhead neon lights that now feel almost blinding, and his jaw aches like it’s been snapped out of place.

He attempts to get up, and groans almost immediately. A face appears in his distorted vision, followed by a hand, which holds up a single middle finger.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“One,” Vernon mumbles, and Jeonghan smirks. “Fuck you. What happened?”

“You mean you don’t remember?” his friend asks, grabbing his hand and pulling him into a sitting position. He looks sideways at another person Vernon hadn’t noticed before, a familiar, hulking figure. “Thanks, Bones. I don’t think he has a concussion.”

“Of course I don’t have a concussion,” Vernon mutters. The owner of the bar, Bones, gives him a dry look before walking away. “It was one punch.” _One very painful punch,_ he thinks, but doesn’t add that part at the end of his sentence. _From a very pretty girl. Good going, dumbass._ “How long have I been out?”

“Ten minutes, give or take a few.” Jeonghan shrugs, leaning back in his seat. He watches Vernon shake himself out for a few more seconds before his smirk grows. “So.”

Vernon snaps his gaze up to meet his, face puckered into a scowl. “Don’t.”

The boy laughs, his head tipping backwards from the force of it. Vernon looks away, face burning in embarrassment as he waits for his friend to ride the laughter out, which takes a few moments more than he’d expected. When he’s done, Jeonghan wipes a fake tear from the corner of his eye. “Wish I’d got that on camera.”

“But you didn’t, so get over it,” Vernon mutters savagely. He reaches up to touch the sore spot on the underside of his jaw, and winces. On top of that, the crest of his temple stings, so he reaches up to touch it. His fingertips come away tinged with blood. “What happened to the other guy?”

“The one you never managed to hit?”

_“Jeonghan.”_

“No idea.” Jeonghan shrugs, swiping a half-empty drink from a table and taking a sip. They’re at the back of the bar, so thankfully the lights aren’t as bright as they could have been, because Vernon’s head is _killing_ him. “He must have slipped away during your encounter with that little spitfire.”

Vernon groans, dropping his head into his hands. The memory comes back slowly—his first bar fight ever, and he didn’t even get to land one hit. Shame and guilt crashes over him in waves. “Don’t tell—” he starts, hoping to keep this incident hidden from his roommate, when he spots something on the table. Something small and square and dark. “What’s that?”

Jeonghan glances over, lifting a single shoulder in a careless shrug. “Lady’s wallet,” he says. “I picked it up when I saw it, but she’d already left.”

The boy stretches his fingers towards the wallet, but hesitates at the last moment. Jeonghan, bless his observant soul, takes note of this and decides to help him out instead of using the opportunity for another laugh at his expense. He reaches over to pick up the wallet by a corner, and hands it to Vernon, who takes it with a look resembling awe. He weighs it in his hand before lifting it up to the light. “It’s so small.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes, though he knows Vernon can’t see him doing it. “Good observation,” he says. “It’s better if we—what are you doing?” he asks, perplexed, as Vernon opens the wallet and pulls out a little square card from inside.

“Looking for an address,” Vernon replies, eyes intense as they focus on the address written in bold black letters on the card. _Peggy’s Gym,_ it says. Huh. “To return it.”

Jeonghan frowns. “By yourself? Are you insane?” He reaches over and plucks the card out of Vernon’s hand, turning it over to study it with a small crease between his eyebrows. “She beat the shit out of you once, I don’t think she’ll hesitate to do it again.”

“Not if I’m only there to get her wallet back,” Vernon says, this time with a roguish smile, some of the old light coming back into his eyes as he snatches the card back and slips it back inside the wallet. “You know, good people who return things are hard to come by these days.”

His friend looks unsure, studying him with a calculating look, all the mirth gone from his face. Jeonghan sits up, the glass in his hand almost tipping over as he does. “Vernon,” he says, “I’ll have you know I don’t approve of this idea at all.”

“Good to know.”

“And it’s already way past your roommate’s assigned curfew, so you’re not going over there right now,” Jeonghan adds. “But if you really want to do it later—well, it’s your head.”

Vernon grins. “You won’t tell—”

“No.” The boy sighs. “Get up, we have to get you cleaned up before I deliver you to your roomie. God, Seungkwan’s going to _kill_ me when he sees that cut.”

* * *

Peggy’s Gym turns out to look even shadier than Vernon had imagined it to look, situated in the deeper parts of the Cavity around a grimy little corner. It’s a three-storey building, dilapidated but looking like someone’s doing their best to keep it clean. A garish neon sign blinks at the entrance, half of the letter _P_ and almost all of _M_ missing from the words.

It looks like a rough neighborhood, but that’s not the reason Vernon’s heart is pounding when he takes the first step through the threshold. The interior is brightly lit, the entrance unmanned, and he proceeds with caution, the wallet clutched tightly in his hand as a kind of white flag in case he needs to use it. After the previous night’s debacle, he’s not eager to get punched again. God forbid it be in a _gym._

A cacophony of sounds attracts him to a corridor, and he frowns as he makes the turn, coming out in front of a room to the left of a narrow hallway. The room is square, relatively small, with a padded floor and stark walls that look like they were once white. A group of kids stand in neat (neat for a bunch of kids, anyway) rows, each in an offensive stance—and at the head of the room stands the person he’s been looking for.

 _Oh._ Absently, he reaches up to touch the wound on his temple, suddenly understanding the force behind the punch.

He takes a step back, deciding not to interrupt you when class is in session. Of course, that doesn’t work, as every single kid in the room turns to stare at him, obviously interested in this new potential distraction to the class. As a result, you turn, forehead already creased into a small frown. Your eyes narrow the moment they land on him.

Vernon smiles nervously, holding up a hand in an awkward half-wave.

“She’s got a _boyfriend,”_ a little kid no more than twelve years old, whispers to his buddy in the first row. You swivel around again, fixing the kid with a look.

“Twenty pushups,” you intone pleasantly, and the kid flushes, but manages a shit-eating grin before he drops to the floor. You turn to regard Vernon for another moment, hesitation dancing in your eyes, then sigh. “Chan, you’re in charge. Watch Josh and make sure he completes his twenty. I won’t be long.”

Another kid—Chan—nods and takes up position at the front of your class. Vernon’s so absorbed in the scene that he’s taken by surprise when you grab his arm and pull him along the hallway and out of earshot. “What are you doing here?” you hiss, finally letting go, and he rubs his arm with a wince.

He gives you a dry look. “I came to return this,” he says, holding up the wallet. “Chivalry isn’t dead.”

You blink, looking taken aback. Vernon raises his eyebrows, waving the wallet in front of you, which snaps you out of your reverie and you finally take the wallet from his outstretched hand.

An uncomfortable silence settles over the two of you. Vernon drops his hand, taking a step back. “Well, uh,” he murmurs, “I’ll be going, then.” He reaches up to card a hand through his hair, accidentally grazing the cut on his temple, and winces.

Your eyes flicker up from the wallet to his face, and go from surprised to a little bit guilty as they land on the cut. You bite your lip, eyeing the cut with something like discomfort. “Did…did I do that?”

Vernon cocks an eyebrow. “No, it was the glass I took with me when I, um, when I tripped backwards and fell,” he says. “Although, indirectly…”

At that, your lips thin. You glance back over your shoulder, then at him, and sigh again, more heavily this time.

“Wait here,” you say, before stalking off in the direction of your class. Vernon obeys, standing there stumped for a few moments. A chorus of tiny prepubescent voices erupts from the room, making his eyebrows twitch upwards. A few moments later, you reappear, looking weary.

“Come with me,” you say curtly. Then you turn and march up the corridor without waiting for him.

Vernon keeps standing there for a few moments before he registers your command. He follows a little hesitantly, weaving through the crowd of kids that bursts from the door, the tallest of which doesn’t even reach halfway to his chest.

He follows you up a dimly-lit wooden stairwell that creaks with every third step, each cracking noise making him wince and glance down. By the time you reach the door, his eyes are so used to the darkness that the sudden burst of light from inside blinds him temporarily.

As you walk in, he stands at the entrance, bewildered and blinking hard, maybe a little concerned for his safety. Something about the guilt in your eyes earlier assuages some of the worry, but even he knows that the reason his heart is beating a little faster has little to do with fear.

When his eyes finally adjust to the light, he sees that the two of you are in a gym. It’s not very wide, but the ceiling is tall, the walls painted a dull, calming blue, the paint cracked at some places, hidden at others with yellowing posters advertising boxing matches. A boxing ring takes up most of the space in the center of the room, leaving a thin band of padded floor running around the ring’s perimeter. At the corner of the room, almost hidden from view by the ring, is a small door looking as if it’s been nudged into the corner by the loud posters surrounding it.

“You should’ve gotten that stitched up,” you say, and he turns towards you slowly, still a little confused. You glance up, gesturing vaguely to the cut, which subconsciously makes him touch it again. Which, of course, makes it hurt. “Did you get it cleaned afterwards?”

He stares at you, stumped. You wait for an answer, raising your eyebrows, the gesture spurring him on. “Oh,” he mutters. “I, uh, I did get it cleaned.”

“With what?”

He opens his mouth to answer, then stops, cheeks coloring. “Actually, I think I might be wrong about that part.”

You sigh for the third time in the span of a few minutes, massaging your forehead with your fingertips. “Alright,” you say ultimately, and is he imagining the sudden roughness in your voice? “I’ll…I’ll clean it up. Least I could do.” The last part is mumbled, and he would have missed it if it weren’t for the absolute stillness.

Vernon’s eyebrows arch high, and you pointedly avoid his gaze as you tell him to wait (again) and go through the small door to fetch the surgical kit. He gets a few minutes to himself in that span of time, during which he measures the conversation and the pros and cons of staying or leaving, and by the time you get back with the kit he’s practically a changed man.

As in he’s smiling a little cheekily when you curl your fingers to call him over, unable to hide his amusement over the situation and his surprise over how flustered you seem to be. The guilt over punching you has all but disappeared, since you seem to have taken it well, and the self-confidence Seungkwan often berates him for is back in (almost) full force.

You brush away the hair at his forehead and bring out a swab of cotton and a bottle of vodka. The latter makes him raise an eyebrow, and you clarify that it’s for disinfecting the wound, which he takes with a grain of salt but general faith in your abilities to clean cuts. You do seem to be pretty experienced at it. “So,” he says, wincing painfully almost immediately after as the first swab of vodka-medicine makes contact with the injury. “You teach martial arts? Explains the right hook.”

“Kickboxing,” you correct—if he isn’t imagining it—a little breathlessly. “I’m surprised you knew that was a right hook.”

He smiles a little, without the teeth. “Not my first time,” he explains, now a little more used to the stinging pain. He focuses on you instead, so close that you would have been bound to notice if it hadn’t been for your absolute concentration on your work. It’s kind of cute, really.

“Not surprised by _that,”_ you comment dryly, and his smile widens. “But, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the punch. I wasn’t really having the best day, and you basically handed satisfaction to me on a silver platter.”

“Uh-huh.” His eyebrows twitch as you bring out the needle, making him gulp. “Are you absolutely _sure_ I need stitches?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no animosity behind the gesture. “Yep,” you say, bringing the threaded needle up to his face. Oh, yeah, _now_ the thundering heartbeat is definitely due to fear.

“And are you absolutely sure you’ve done this before?” he asks, making you smirk.

“Yep,” you say, popping the _p_ , and simultaneously the small balloon of his blown-up confidence. You reach up, pulling the lips of the gash together, and the contact burns for reasons entirely different from pain.

He screws his eyes shut as the first needle goes through, hunching his shoulders and sucking in the air through his teeth. You laugh a little at that, and he reopens his eyes, smiling, though a little crookedly (because oh god that shit hurts).

When you’re done stitching him up, you bandage the wound and take a step back to survey your work. “That hurt,” Vernon says honestly, because he’s the kind of person who speaks his mind, and your lips twitch up into a smile.

“Well, you handled it like a champ,” you say, hands resting on your hips, and—okay, he knows you’re mocking him, but his chest still warms at the not-compliment.

“I bet you say that to all the boys you patch up,” he says playfully.

You cock your head, still smiling. “Only the ones under thirteen,” you quip, which makes him laugh despite the implication.

As you clean the needle and repack the kit, he lets his eyes wander the small gym. Moths hum around the bulb hanging over the boxing ring, but the ring itself seems untouched, like some sort of relic behind a glass pane. It’s just like any other ring, but something about the way it stands seems almost proud. It’s surrounded by old posters and advertisements but it stands out, like it has _character,_ more personality than rings in the boxing matches he used to watch as a kid. Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s walked up to it, running his hands over the edge of the raised platform.

“That’s not very hygienic, you know,” you comment, but make no move to pull him away from the ring. He turns at the sound of your voice, lifting his shoulders in a weak shrug.

“Do you box?” he asks, as casually as he can, but his use of the word is rusty at best and his voice is already low as it is. He can’t help but feel the need for reverent tones when he speaks about this place.

Your eyes take on a faraway look, like reliving each of your memories with this place, which makes him wonder how long you’ve been doing this. He looks around the room, and he sees years’ worth of history in this dingy little gym that smells like old paper and long-dried sweat. “My dad taught me,” you say in a murmur, then smile a little. “Guess that’s who you have to thank for that cut.”

“Well, I’m glad he taught you how to do stitches to go with that,” he says. “Evens out.”

You’re silent, looking lost in thought. Vernon’s eyes wander where they’re probably not supposed to, over the sheen of sweat on your bared neck and the soft skin peeking out from under the hem of your t-shirt where it rides up at your waist. You exhale heavily, and his eyes snap back up to yours.

“Teach me,” he says.

You turn to face him, uncomprehending. “What?”

He gestures to the ring. “Teach me how to box,” he says. “So the next time I get in a bar fight, I know how to defend myself.”

That puts a smile on your face, but your eyebrows still draw together, like you’re not sure if he’s being serious. “I don’t really have much experience teaching grown adults, you know.”

“Trial and error,” he says happily. He’s not too sure where he was intending to go with this, but now that he’s said it out loud and everything, his heart is pounding with slow-trickling anxiousness and eagerness, both in equal parts. “I know you have—all that with those kids,” he stumbles over his words, making jazz hands to convey the message instead, “but, you know. Sometimes. If you’re good with that.”

Your frown eases a little, but you still look hesitant, which is totally understandable. He doesn’t know where this came from either, but it seemed important that he said it when he did. “Well—”

“You saw how easily I got K.O.ed,” he reminds you. Then, as inspiration hits, he touches his bandaged stitches lightly, putting on the best wounded-pup face he can muster. “I kind of need the help. To preserve my manly dignity.”

You bite the inside of your lip at that, but he sees the edges of a smile threatening to break out on your face. “I can’t believe you’re pulling that card,” you say, a laugh in your words. “I did apologize.”

“And I accepted that apology,” he says, “because technically, it was my fault, but that’s the whole point! What if next time, it’s a really tall, really muscular dude instead?”

Your shoulders shake as you attempt to hold in a laugh. He guesses he must look desperate, and he kind of _is,_ if only it’s to have a reason to see you again. “Well, in that case, training wouldn’t help much.”

“I can try.”

You study him for a second, a hint of a smile on your lips. “Yeah,” you murmur, “I guess you can.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great!” He grins, failing spectacularly at hiding his enthusiasm. Not that he’s trying particularly hard. “So…when can we start?”

You let out a snort at that. “I’ll let you know,” you say. “But don’t expect it to be soon.”

“You got it.” Vernon reaches into his back pocket to fish out his phone, and pauses. “Wait. I never got your name.”

“I never offered it,” you reply dryly, but give it to him anyway. “And you’re…”

“Vernon.” He flashes his best smile to go with it, but you remain unfazed. Okay, well. Plenty of time to try that out later.

“Well, hello, Vernon,” you say, and something in his chest flutters at the way you enunciate his name, with care and a little bit of a drawl that ends in a smirk. “And thank you.”

He grins again, this time managing to elicit a small smile from you, too. “No problem.”

* * *

Turns out, he doesn’t have to wait that long after all.

You’re very hesitant about the entire ordeal at first, because the whole thing feels _off_. All your life, you’ve been taught not to trust men, regardless of how good-looking they were—in fact, the pretty ones are usually the worst. One can, considering your past experiences, understand your doubt about having a good-looking city boy waltz up and demand that you teach him kickboxing, especially when it’s a city boy you’ve _punched_. So instead of letting the time draw out and sinking deeper into your own qualms, you decide to get it over with as quickly as possible, so if he does turn out to have some kind of ulterior motive, you can throw him out that much quicker. Rip off the proverbial band-aid.

To your surprise, Vernon doesn’t turn out to be the kind of person who’d enjoy a fight. He turns out to be much worse.

“I told you, you don’t have to hold back with me,” you say, a note of irritation slipping into your voice despite your best attempts at keeping it at bay. “I’m not made of glass, Vernon. I won’t break if you hit me.”

“It’s not—I’m not—I didn’t say that,” Vernon mumbles, flushing slightly. His stance is good. He follows your instructions and doesn’t make much of a fuss, even when you accidentally clock him right on the spot where you bruised him earlier that week. “I’m just not used to this.”

You hold back a sigh. What makes everything even worse is that you can’t be mean to him. He’s not fragile by any means—in fact, he’s tough enough to hold his own, despite the lack of training and your last violent encounter with him. He’s just so darn _nice._ Not in the polite sense, but he’s well-mannered, the kind that you’re not used to after living in one of the city’s roughest neighborhoods since you were a child. It makes you want to dislike him, because it’s easy to dislike people from the city with their contempt and their preening and their words, but Vernon is an exception.

It gives you a headache.

“If you don’t take this seriously, you’ll never be able to learn,” you tell him, meaning every word. This is your way of teaching: application, not pads or punching bags. Punching bags don’t punch back. “You’re not strong enough to seriously hurt me, even if you go all-out. And I won’t go easy on you, either. What _is_ your problem with hitting me, anyway? That’s the whole point of this class.”

“My mom raised me right,” he says with a self-deprecating smile, and your heart thumps painfully in your chest. “But I’ll try.”

He feints to the left, then strikes out at your abdomen, but it’s a weak punch. You make a frustrated noise at the back of your throat, and push forwards, directing a high kick towards his face. Vernon defends, looking surprised at the sudden ferocity in your movements, but you’re relentless. A well-aimed hook sends his other arm up, leaving his abdomen exposed. You dart in, aiming a solid, reliable mule kick at his stomach, which sends him stumbling backwards, caught off-guard with an unstable base—and you drop, sweeping his legs out from underneath him. He lands on his back with a heavy _thump._

You move to stand over him with your hands on your hips, eyebrows raised, like, _well?_

And Vernon—curse that bastard—grins. His million-watt smile flashes, charging up your circuit, and leaving you caught off-guard instead. “Point taken,” he says, still smiling, and you shake your head, a smile of your own having subconsciously formed on your face to mirror his.

“I sure hope so,” you say, and hold out a hand. He moves to grasp it, but you shake your head _no,_ instead wrapping your fingers around his wrist. “Mirror that. It’s called a mountaineer’s grip. Much better than that chick-flick hold.”

Vernon follows your instructions, gripping your wrist and part of your forearm, and you pull him up to his feet. “That hurt like a bitch,” he says, and you tilt your head.

“I hope it did,” you say calmly, and he bursts out laughing, which—god, it makes your heart hurt. A tingle of something unfamiliar travels down your spine as he lets go of your hand, standing before you with his chest heaving like he’s just finished running a marathon.

“Go again?” he asks.

* * *

“Your stance is all wrong,” you call out, as you and Vernon circle each other in the center of the boxing ring, waiting for the moment to strike. “Spread your feet a bit more, align them with your shoulders. That way, you won’t be pushed off-balance that easily.”

Vernon obeys, shifting the position of his feet, aligning his hips with the stance. He’s a good student, or maybe you’re just too used to looking after boisterous ten-year-olds who have too much energy for something that requires as much discipline as kickboxing.

At first, you’d decided that you wouldn’t let this happen too often—you already had too much on your plate, and even the extra cash wasn’t inviting enough for you to slave away for hours beyond your strict schedule. However, you had recognized that that plan was going to be trashed the moment you’d started. Vernon wasn’t just a good student, he was _fun._ Much more fun than you were used to in your packed weekly schedule, tightened to the second for maximum efficiency like a loose screw. You hadn’t realized how much you needed someone your age around the place. This was supposed to be a job, a part of work, but it was beginning to feel more like down time.

“Arms up,” you call. Vernon raises his arms, shielding his face but not his upper body, leaving the center of his chest wide open. You open your mouth, intending to correct his posture, but think better of it. Instead, you draw back, hiding a smirk.

“Wha—” Vernon starts, looking confused, but you strike out before he can complete his statement. The heel of your hand connects with the center of his chest, knocking him off-balance (shifted stance again, _goddamnit_ ). You spring back before he’s even registered the hit. “Ow!”

“Protect your chest,” you say. “That’s the fourth most important place to defend, after your—”

“Face, abdomen, legs,” he lists, then frowns, rubbing his chest where you hit him. “That was uncalled for.”

You shake your head. “I’m your kickboxing instructor, Chwe, not your nanny,” you quip. “You have to keep your guard up. What if someone attacks you at a bar again?”

Vernon narrows his eyes, then smiles. The sight makes you raise an eyebrow, and you pull in your guard a little tighter after that, wary of whatever he’s thinking. “I’m not as bad as you think, you know,” he says, relaxing his guard, which only makes you even warier. “I’m just a little off my game because it’s so goddamn _hot_ in here,” he complains, turning around.

You watch, transfixed, as he peels off his sweat-soaked shirt—which, admittedly, had already been sticking to his body like a second skin—and tosses it to a corner. Sweat shines on his skin, reminding you of those car wash commercials with shirtless men. Pale, corded muscle runs along his neck, going taught as he rolls it. His chest is lean and chiseled, the sweat accentuating the planes and lines of it—oh, the _lines,_ running in the middle of his chest and down to his abdomen, on the insides of his waist, disappearing into the waistband of his pants—

“You need to get an air conditioner in here, babe.”

_Babe?_

You tense, surprised, and he uses the split second of distraction to attack. He punches up, and you defend without thinking, leaving yourself— _ugh_ —off-balance. “Got you,” he whispers, hooking a leg behind your ankle and pulling it out from under you.

You tumble to the ground, taking him with you, so he lands on top of you. “You fought _dirty,”_ you accuse, and when he chuckles, you feel the vibrations of his body in yours, resonating deep within your bones. Suddenly, you’re hyperaware of his body pressed against yours, every line aligning with yours, his face incredibly close. Heat waves roll off his bare chest and soak through your clothes, making everything uncomfortably _hot_ (you _do_ need to get that air conditioner).

“I’m pretty sure they don’t fight fair at bars,” Vernon says lowly, and you feel in his breath the exact shape of his smirk. “Consider this a kind of practice.”

His hair, a sunny shade of blonde, has turned darker at the temples where it’s plastered to his skin with sweat. Your eyes track a bead as it runs along his jaw and travels down his neck before plateauing in the hollow of his collarbone.

“Dirty, huh?” you ask, circling your fingers around his bicep. He blinks; long, sweeping eyelashes throwing off light when he does, almost taking you with them. You lift your back a little off the ground, arching your spine, and he sucks in his breath—you feel it, the tightening of his bicep and the swelling of his chest, the sudden skip in his heartbeat strangely gratifying—and flip your positions.

Vernon doesn’t see it coming, of course, registering everything a little slower even as he lands hard on his back with you on top. You push yourself up and away from his upper body, straddling him, pinning his arms with your knees, and smirk down at him in satisfaction.

“If you’d been paying more attention, you wouldn’t have ended up in this position,” you tell him.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, looking a bit dazed as he speaks. There are the barest traces of a smile around his mouth, because of course he’d keep smiling even when you’ve got him pinned down like this. “I kind of like being in this position.”

Your breath catches in your throat. Your hands curl against his chest, and you swallow slowly, eyes flicking from his eyes to his smile and his lips, and— _this is a bad idea._

“Get up,” you command, the smile slipping off your face as you roll off him and get to your feet. You don’t see his eyes dim, nor do you hear his low sigh as he pushes himself off the ground and stands. “That will be all for today.”

“What?” Vernon complains. “It hasn’t even been an hour yet.”

“I have…stuff,” you murmur, looking away. You make your way towards the ropes, pulling off the hand towel hanging from it and patting it against your sweaty neck. “Go home, Vernon.”

He leans against the nearest post, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning. He watches you try to look busy with the towel for a few more seconds, and you grow more and more awkward with each. Finally, after a few long moments, just when you’re about to throw something at him, he speaks.

“Actually, I’m going to stay out for a while,” he says. “I’m starving.”

The word triggers something in you, reminding you of the last meal you had—mac-and-cheese, four hours earlier, before all of your classes. On cue, your stomach growls.

When you turn to face him, Vernon has a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Fine,” you mutter, conceding defeat. “I know this Chinese place a few blocks away, but you’re paying.”

And when he says, “It’s the least I could do,” you hear unmistakable warmth in his words.

* * *

“So,” Vernon says around a mouthful of hunan chicken, “tell me about yourself.”

You look up from your dish and raise an eyebrow. You’ve already worked your way through a plate and are currently on your second one with no end in sight, which makes him wonder how long you’ve gone without eating. Thankfully, the place is relatively cheap and not too heavy on his wallet, so he’ll probably still have enough to catch a ride home later.

“I’m a kickboxing instructor for forty little kids and one big kid, I live in an apartment, I like egg foo young,” you say dryly.

“Yeah, but—I already know that.”

“What else is there to tell?” you ask with a shrug, and proceed to take another mouthful. Your face and hair are bathed in a soft, orangey glow because of the light from the paper lanterns, which makes your curved mouth look like a soft line, sleepy and comfortable. Vernon almost doesn’t feel like disturbing it. Almost.

“You said your dad taught you how to fight,” he starts, and, lo-and-behold, the smile slips from your face.

The change in mood is instantaneous and practically tangible, like a cloud hovering over your little booth. You drop your fork into your plate and lean back with a sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. “You _had_ to go there,” you mutter. “And I was about to relent, too.”

“Oh, is that a forbidden topic? I didn’t mean to,” he says quickly, apologetic, swallowing the rest of his overly-masticated chicken. “We can make a list, so everyone knows what to avoid.”

The soft curve returns, but it’s dim enough that the light doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You run a hand over the opposite bicep, looking down at your half-full plate. There’s a tenseness in your posture, the way you square your shoulders and tighten your jaw that reminds him of squaring up in the ring. A little part of him, still in the gym, expects a drop kick.

“Well, he’s…not in my life anymore,” you murmur. “And good thing, too. I used to live with my sister for a while before she moved out, and now it’s just me.” You shrug a single-shouldered shrug, trying to come off as stoic, but it’s a useless enterprise. “So, yeah, I live alone, in a tiny flat above the gym.”

The last part, tacked on uncaringly at the end of your sentence, catches him by surprise. “You live above the gym?”

A grimace flickers across your face, looking like dancing lights with the orange-candy glow. “Can we pretend you didn’t hear that?”

“Nope,” he says, picking up a spoon and using the handle to point at you. “So all this time, we were right underneath your home, and you didn’t even think to invite me in?”

“Well, we’re not exactly friends,” you say, but with enough amusement behind your words that it doesn’t sound mean. “I’m your kickboxing instructor, not your—”

“Nanny, I know, you’ve used that phrase too many times for it to have any real bite,” he says, leaning against the back of his seat to mirror your posture. “You never said we couldn’t be friends.”

“You think we’re friends?” you ask, sounding half-amused, half-unsure.

Vernon raises his eyebrows. “You don’t?”

“Well, we’re…” He watches you fumble with the words for a bit, a sly smile on his face, and it takes you a beat too long to notice. You end up biting your lip, and lean forward, uncrossing your arms and plunging your joined hands between your knees. “We’re…something.”

“Something,” he tries out, and nods in approval. “I can live with that.”

You play with something underneath the table for a second, then look up, eyes sharp. “I told you something about myself, like you said,” you say. “Your turn.”

“My turn?” He cocks his head, thinking. “I’ve lived a pretty uneventful life.”

“I’m sure you can come up with something.”

“Well…” he muses, folding his arms behind his head. “I live in an apartment, too, except I have a roommate. He’s really particular about things, like time and taking showers and making beds, so I’m definitely going to get a lecture on the importance of _sticking to schedule_ when I get back today,” he admits, scrunching up his nose at the thought. “I’m kind of beginning to regret this.”

You laugh—and, yeah, that’s kind of the whole reason he’s doing this. A smile tugs at his lips as he hears it, and you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, shaking your head. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“Not nearly enough,” he replies, and your smile, a remnant from your laughter, widens into a grin that’s stained orange and red. “I might just move out after tonight. But then I’d be alone.”

“I’ll let you crash on my couch.”

“Much obliged.”

You settle into another stretch of silence, but this time, it’s comfortable. He stares at you staring at your hands, feeling full and content and not just because of the _excellent_ hunan chicken (he’s definitely coming here again). It’s been a while since he felt this…complete.

_I could get used to this._

“Make your move as soon as you can, before your chance slips away,” you say, startling him out of his thoughts. “Love does not wait.”

Vernon blinks, lowering his arms to push himself into a straight sitting position, somewhat shakily. “What?”

You hold up a slip of paper with one hand, and a fortune cookie in another.

His chest deflates, but whether it is with relief or disappointment, he isn’t sure. He waits until the shakiness passes, relaxing into the seat before speaking. “Didn’t you already eat yours?” he asks.

“I did,” you say, then smirk, popping half the broken cookie into your mouth. “This one’s yours.”

Happiness really does come from the strangest of places.

* * *

_We are not making this a regular thing_ , you had said at the end of the day, after you’d finished the cookie and Vernon had paid the bill and the two of you had stood outside the restaurant, arms wrapped around your bodies to shield weakly from the nighttime chill. _Of course_ , Vernon had replied with a funny little smile that had looked more like a grin, challenging beneath its superficial innocence.

So, yeah, it ends up becoming a regular thing.

Drinks are a major no-no, and you manage to hold that paper-thin rule in its place for almost two weeks before finally relenting. Even then, you warn him not to drink more than to get buzzed, and he agrees with the same disobedient smile which makes your stomach churn with thoughts you're still too afraid to bring to the forefront of your brain. At the very least, you swear to yourself that you won’t let him win this time around. And, to an extent, that oath holds true.

You just hadn't counted on Vernon turning out to be a lightweight.

"'m not drunk," he says as you drag him along the street, the nine-p.m. curfew crushed to pieces for the first time in weeks. Vernon's eyes are alert, only slipping under a veil of exhaustion when you look away, so you're almost inclined to believe him—would have been, if he hadn't been leaning on you so heavily. Every step he takes is wobbly yet deliberate, a small frown of concentration etched in the middle of his brow as he navigates the crumbling sidewalk. "I'm—not. Just tired."

"Sure," you say brightly, too tired to argue with a drunk man about the degree of his drunkenness. "Let's get you home for now, alright? I don't want you to pass out in the backseat of a potential ax murderer."

"Cab drivers are nice."

"Yeah, well," you mutter, hoisting him up as he slips a little, like a particularly big, particularly heavy bag. "Not here."

He holds it together until you finally hail a cab, intending to drop him off yourself and make sure he gets home instead of some trafficking ring. It's not unheard of. While you converse with the driver, trying to decipher Vernon's real address instead of the slurred mess he gave you back in the bar, he wanders off without you noticing. The next thing you hear is the violent clang of a body colliding with something unforgiving and metallic, followed by an instantly recognizable "Ow!"

You whip around, panic taking ahold of you and tightening all the muscles in your body, which only relax when you see Vernon standing a few feet away, clutching his forehead. "I walked into a stop sign," he says, as if that's supposed to ease your worry.

"I noticed," you say wryly, grasping his elbow in a vice-like grip and walking him to the cab, where the driver hangs out of the window and looks pointedly at his fake/real and possible stolen Rolex. "Get inside. I'm taking you home."

"Home?" Vernon echoes, folding his long limbs into a manageable size as he climbs into the back. Then, as the meaning of the word registers, very real horror seeps into his expression as quickly as dye in water. "You can't take me home like this! Seungkwan will have me drawn and quartered."

"And whose fault is that?" you bite back, making his lower lip jut out in a convincing pout. Okay, maybe he's not as drunk as you'd thought. "Don't give me that look."

"You promised you'd let me crash at your place in case I ever needed to lay low for a while," he says accusingly.

"I never promised you _anything_ ," you hiss back, if only for the sake of argument, because it's kind of an uphill road when he's using those damn puppy eyes on you.

The driver reaches around to thump the back of his seat. You swivel to face him, and he arches his bushy eyebrows. "Well, missy, where to?" he asks in an annoyed voice that’s more than a little nasally, spittle flying out from underneath his beard and narrowly missing your face. "I don't have all night."

You sigh through your teeth, and give him your address.

You take Vernon up to your apartment through the fire escape, hoping the chilly outdoor wind will keep him upright at least until you've got him inside your apartment. He collapses on your couch the moment you enter the comforting warmth of the living room, letting out a very vocal indication of his satisfaction as he drapes himself over the pillows. You roll your eyes fondly, heading for the refrigerator to look for ice for his stop-sign-induced bruise.

"Your couch is more comfortable than my bed," Vernon exclaims as you rummage through the freezer for the ice tray. "I wouldn't mind sleeping here every night."

"You're not sleeping over every night," you say, finally feeling the edge of a plastic tray inside the freezer, but when you bring it out, it's dismally empty. "Great."

"What happened?"

"I'm out of ice," you murmur, cursing yourself for forgetting to freeze some earlier. You pull out a bag of frozen peas instead, the temperature numbing your fingertips as you do, and switch hands.

"What do you need ice for?"

"Your bruise," you say, and toss the pack to him. It smacks against a hard surface a second later, followed by yet another exclamation of surprise and pain.

"Inebriated individual here!" Vernon calls as you turn, seeing him hold up the bag by a corner, rubbing a spot on his chest where you assume it had hit him a moment earlier. He gives you the stink eye when you look at him. "My depth perception is a little messed up at the moment."

You walk over to him, taking the bag from his hand and taking a seat on the table in front of him so you're at eye-level with him. "I told you not to drink too much," you say in a voice that is much too pleased by the outcome, holding the bag against the side of his face.

"I'll make sure to listen to you next time," he says, and though his words are supposed to be mocking, his voice is rough as he looks into your eyes. The sheen of ice over the packet seeps into your skin, but you forget to pay attention, lost for a moment in his gaze.

The silence that usually pervades your apartment at nighttime suddenly seems alive, like a held breath, waiting for something big. Vernon's eyes hold yours, and you can pick out the rings of brown in them, the iris shrinking back from his blown-out pupils.

Unconscious of your own actions, you part your lips, tensing as his face inches closer and his eyelashes sweep almost over his cheeks, casting spidery shadows over his skin. He exhales softly, and his breath when it fans your face is still warm, like the body heat radiating off him in waves and cocooning you in the small, packed space of the room. He lifts a hand, reaching for your face, and you lean in slowly, as if drawn in by the gravity of him, as if the walls are closing in and pushing you up against his chest, and— _this is a bad idea._

You inhale sharply, and spring back. Vernon's brow twitches, and he drops his hand, looking more than a little confused. Your eyes glance away from his and focus on the packet of peas, where your palm has grown numb with the prolonged exposure to ice. "Here," you say roughly, lifting his hand and using it to replace yours over the packet before drawing away completely.

The last thing you see before you turn are Vernon's fingers as they curl around the stuff crimp of the bag, but you feel his eyes on your back for much longer. He says nothing, remaining silent and brooding, which puts you even more on edge. You don't know how to escape from this, this oppressive stillness, which makes you feel like you're stuck with no way out. Bound, almost—restricted, limited, confined—

You practically fall into a sitting position when the back of your knees hits the edge of the couch, too distracted to notice. "Guess I'm not the only one who got drunk," Vernon rasps, voice muffled by the bag of peas.

* * *

The next morning, you come to slowly.

The first thing you register is that you apparently never made it to your bed, since you're jammed uncomfortably into one corner of the couch. Your joints creak when you try to move, and your neck hurts so much it feels like someone’s stuck a blade between the discs of your spine. You twist your neck to dislodge it and roll your shoulders, but just as you're about to get up, you notice the weight in your lap.

You look down to see Vernon fast asleep on your couch, his head pillowed by your lap. The bag of peas has long fallen, a few of them rolling out onto the marble floor from where it split from the fall at some point during the night. His mouth is slightly open, expression oddly peaceful in sleep. The edges of your heart soften as you card a hand through his hair, marveling at the softness of the hair at his nape. Something sticks in your chest when he stirs at the touch.

That's when you know that something has to be done.

* * *

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

You're an unstoppable force, landing punch after punch on the heavy bag that hangs in front of you. Sweat pours from every pore on your skin, soaking through your tank and making it stick to your skin, so the friction irritates the creases of your body every time you move. You land another hook on the punching bag, the boxing tape chafing at your knuckles, as worn-out as you. It's been an hour since you got up at midnight to go down to the gym, and you're nowhere close to done.

The lights are out, so they don't spill out from under the doorway and into the corridor to alert Peggy of your presence. It helps you focus, the muggy silence that you need to convert into something liberating, something freeing like you're used to, because you're not alone you're just independent and you're coping. You're handling it. You have been for the past seven years and that doesn’t need to change _now_.

Your phone lights up with a notification, and you drop your arms, allowing yourself a miniscule break to bend down and swipe the device off the padded floor. The sudden brightness burns your eyes, but you welcome it, hoping it keeps you awake for a while longer so when you _do_ fall asleep you positively _crash_ , and don't have to spend hours waking in the morning just laying on your bed, contemplating and listening to the sounds of nothingness that cages you like an animal.

 ** _VERNON:_** so i'm guessing 'i'll see you next week' was a lie

 ** _VERNON:_** i'm bored, haven't had anything to fight in ages

 ** _VERNON:_** the ghost act is getting old

 ** _VERNON:_** you okay?

The timestamp on the last one is 2:14 a.m., which tells you you've been here for way longer than you'd thought. You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment before turning off your phone and tossing it back onto the mat.

You haven't been ghosting him, not exactly. You still reply to his texts every once in three days and, okay, so maybe they're all monosyllabic but so what? You don't owe anyone an explanation, least of all him. So he hasn't seen you in two weeks. So maybe he's a little worried. But he has no right to be.

You turn back to the punching back, assuming an offensive stance, but weariness weighs down on your bones and threatens to pull you down to the floor. After sandbagging with kids all day, the exertion is sudden and exhausting, and you're not sure how long you can keep this up.

Then the silence grows more noticeable around you, circling and whispering and waiting, so you grit your teeth and raise your arms back up.

_Thump._

* * *

Three days later, midnight comes at your doorstep in the form of a bleeding Vernon.

You're surprised enough as it is, but he adds on to it with a weak smile that quickly turns into a wince, and stumbles a bit before his leather-clad shoulder hits the doorframe. "Hi," he says, sucking in a ragged breath, as your eyes roam his form, from the reopened cut on his temple to the blood gathered at one corner of his mouth. "A little help?"

You open your mouth and close it in the manner of a goldfish, then shake your head as if trying to get rid of something invisible. Wordlessly, you move out of his way, letting him enter the apartment and closing the door behind him.

You lean against the door for a moment as if to catch your breath, watching him make his way to the couch like watching an alien trudge across a moonlit football field. It's surreal, and it's late, so you're not sure if this is just your subconscious taking over, making you dream with open eyes.

"I couldn't go back home because a. it's past midnight, and b. I'm bleeding, so my roommate would have chopped me up into bite-sized pieces and fed me to his aunt's dog," Vernon says, and you take the first few hesitant steps in his direction, slowly beginning to realize that you aren't dreaming and all of this is actually happening. "And you patched me up pretty well last time—for free—so I didn't really see the point in going to a doctor if I'm going to crash here anyway. Nice to see you're alive and well, actually," he adds, "I wasn't sure, seeing as you didn't deem it fit to let me know."

You brush aside the jab, not without a pang of guilt, and move to stand in front of him. He's taken a seat on your couch, pressing two fingers against corner of his mouth with a permanent grimace plastered over his expression. "What happened?" you ask in a steely tone, now that you're sure he isn't in immediate danger of, well, _dying_ or something.

His eyes flicker up to yours for a split second before glancing away. "Got into a bar fight," he says casually, like one might say they bumped into someone on the street. "You know, I wasn't kidding when I said I was bored of not having anyone to fight."

You take a deep breath, trembling slightly from the force of emotion that swells inside you like a violent wave. "And you came...here."

"I already told you I couldn't go home," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Where else was I supposed to go?"

You kiss your teeth, unsure if you're happy or upset or downright incensed. “Somewhere,” you say, clenching your fists. “A motel. Anywhere.” You glare. "You can't just waltz in here without permission."

He gives you a look. "I didn't." His fingertips probe the cut again, and come away bloody. "Besides, you didn't have a problem with me staying over the last time."

"What if I’d had guests over?"

"Do you?"

You clench your teeth, and exhale slowly, trying to calm your thundering heartbeat. Then you turn on your heel and march to your bathroom to get the suture kit, because you can't just stand there and do nothing about the reopened cut when your fingers are shaking with the itch to touch him.

When you get back, Vernon's stopped touching his injuries, and you feel your heart twist when you notice his gaze on you, heavy and observant. He seems so damn _knowing_ sometimes that you can't bear it. Bear to act like it doesn't bother you when he watches you, taking note of every little movement, when all you want to do is open Pandora's box and shake him until he lets the words spill out.

Vernon gets up and comes to you before you can step towards the sofa, silent and prepared. "Stay still now," you warn as you bring up the vodka-soaked cotton to clean his cut. His eyes stay on you, intense and burning, so much more upfront than what you're used to. This time, he doesn't flinch as you work, even as you stitch closed his skin and wipe the blood at the corner of his mouth with a curved knuckle. He keeps watching, and you know he always did watch, but right now it doesn't seem as furtive—his gaze is blunt like a rusted knife, waiting for you to take notice.

"What did you do?" you ask quietly as you finish up the last stitch, bandaging the wound. Vernon's passive facade cracks with a small smile, and your entire body breathes a sigh of relief, because you wouldn't know what to do if he remained impassive.

"Pissed off the wrong person," he says, sounding damn pleased with himself, and you don't even attempt to bite back the chuckle that bubbles up in your chest. "You should've seen him. It was this huge guy, and I wasn't even drunk, but I really wanted to punch someone, you know? And I know the first rule of everything is knowing when to walk away from a fight and yada-yada-yada, but I really wanted to do it. I don't think I could have fallen asleep without it."

You reach up and touch the fading bruise on his cheekbone, grazing your fingertips against the yellowed skin. "Was it a hook?"

"A cross."

You nod slowly, distractedly, and let your hand drop. His eyes track your movements as you take a step back, closing the suture kit and setting it down on the table. For a moment, you're utterly still, and then you turn—slightly, spreading your feet to align with your shoulders, cocking an arm to brush away a strand of hair from your face—and punch.

He jerks in surprise, but blocks reflexively like you’d taught him; drilled it into his body's primal instincts by making him do it over and over and over. The inside of your wrist catches his arm, and he pushes it outwards, tensing up in surprise. "What was that for?"

"You can block a cross, Vernon," you say, voice brittle, and curl your fingers into your palm. "I don't know how strong that man was, but you can block a cross, and like _hell_ will I believe that his punch even grazed you." Your teeth come together with a click of your jaw. "You threw the fight."

His shoulders brace, then relax. "Maybe," he admits at length, and murmurs, “but it doesn't really matter."

You press your lips together, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why are you here, Vernon?"

"Because I _want_ to be here," he says, a line appearing between his furrowed eyebrows. "You haven't answered any of my calls in the past week, and the only reply I got was a single word to my paragraph. I've been worried sick."

"I'm not _asking_ you to be worried sick," you say through your teeth, letting your arms drop to your sides and balling your fists. "I don't see how that changes anything."

His lips thin, but he looks away, breathing heavily. "Okay," he breathes, looking like he’s trying to hold back an avalanche gathered behind his tongue, "okay." He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and lets his shoulders fall. "But I'm staying here tonight. I meant it when I said Seungkwan was going to chop me up into pieces."

You bite your lip, managing a defeated nod. "Fine," you murmur. "Just..."

He looks back at you, eyebrows raised.

Your fingertips flutter towards his bandaged forehead, then back. "Don't sleep on your side," you say hoarsely, and his eyes soften.

Hesitating at first, you lean into him just a little, and he holds his breath, watching you with fever-pitch intensity as you draw closer. His eyes track your movements as you touch the lapel of his jacket, lightly, and waver. His skin is inches from yours, and just out of reach, and— _this is a bad idea._

You flinch at the sound of your dad’s voice in your head, and turn away. Vernon’s brow furrows, his eyes flickering from your face to your fingers as they move away, and realization slowly dawns on his face.

“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” he all but groans, catching at your wrist before you can turn away. You spin around, armed with a glare, but even that falters when you see the look on his face. It’s raw—the vulnerability in his eyes, the furrowed brow, the way his lips pull up almost like a wince.

“Do what?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“The thing where you gaze deeply into my eyes like you’re totally going to kiss me, and then don’t,” he says, and there’s a fierceness behind the blunt, humorous words that makes your heart stutter in your chest. Vernon pulls at your wrist, tugging you closer to his body, and you don’t even have the heart to resist. “That.”

You let out a disbelieving huff, closing your fingers into a fist. "What else do you want me to do?" you say roughly. There's a scream in your words that you can't let out. The mirage is cracking into pieces all around you, and you'd be a fool to pretend like there was nothing wrong when it's time for all cards to be on the table. "Would you rather be with me, in a nice, domesticated life where I meet your parents and you don't get to meet mine and I look your _particular_ roommate in the eye and tell him I live in a place like _this_?" you snap. "Is that how you expect this to turn out?"

"No," Vernon breathes. "Of course not. I don't—it doesn't matter, what they—"

"That's what _you_ think," you bite. "Is this really the place you want to come back to? This dingy little apartment surrounded by brick and buildings, with no sunlight and no air so you hear dogs and car alarms all night?" You gesture to yourself. "You think someone like you could _ever_ last with something like _this_?"

And his eyes, curse them, are still as soft as the mat you fell on whenever your dad knocked you down in the gym as a kid. They make all the muscles of your body stiffen, but cushion you too, taking the brunt of the fall. "If I didn't like it," Vernon says softly, "I wouldn't keep coming back to it."

He leans in, capturing your lips with his.

Tired of holding back, you lean into the kiss after a split second of surpise with every bit of fervor you have left in your bone-tired body. His hand lets go of your wrist to tangle in your hair, the other going to your waist, reeling you in and kissing you slow and hard and deep. You let go for air seconds later, breathless with surprise, and meet his eyes. They smolder like twin flames, low at first and then bright, burning away all that's left of your doubt and fear and unease.

_Oh, fuck it._

You push him onto the couch, hooking a leg over his thigh to straddle him, bunching up the material of his shirt in your hands before pulling him towards you and kissing him with a force behind it. He kisses back just as fast and just as hard, gripping your waist like a vice and pulling you into his lap. “You drive me crazy,” he whispers in between kisses, and your fingers curl tighter in his shirt.

Something thick and hot coils in your gut, and you deepen the kiss, your tongue teasing along the line of his lips before slipping into his mouth. Vernon moans into the kiss, his hands slipping from your waist up your sides, cupping your breasts and pressing into them. You gasp against his mouth, which makes his eyes glint. Vengeful, you slip your hands under his t-shirt and up the firm muscle of his back, tasting the edge of his grin in the kiss.

But still, he draws back enough to get a few words in, eyes searching yours. "We're doing this?" he asks, pupils blown wide, pushing the ring of his irises into a thin circlet of honey-brown.

"You want to do this?" you ask, a little breathless, and he groans a little.

"Do I want to fuck? Hell yes," he says.

You cock an eyebrow. "On the couch?"

He shrugs. "You do something new every day."

"That's not how it goes, but..." You slant your lips against his.

His teeth graze your bottom lip, and your nails curl into his back. He slides his hands back to the hem of your t-shirt, giving it an impatient upward tug as you kiss him, making it bunch under your arms. "Patience, grasshopper," you whisper against his lips before pulling back and letting him wrench the shirt up and over your head, discarding it somewhere to the side. 

Shivers skitter down your spine as he runs the pads of his fingers along the skin under your bra, toying with the clip for a moment before wrenching it open, breaking it in the process. You narrow your eyes, and he grins apologetically, flicking his thumb over your hardened nub and instantly making you forget your annoyance. 

_“Mmph,”_ you protest, as he plants a series of haphazard kisses along the valley of your chest. His other hand delves under the waistband of your sweats, along the band of your pantyline, and hovers there for a moment before slipping in deeper.

When his fingers graze your clit, you bite down on his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. You're aware that you're almost soaked through—he _is_ an expert kisser—and Vernon seems to notice it too, as one side of his mouth twists into a smirk. He curls his fingers, caressing your slick heat with the pad of his index and middle finger, but only just. You break the kiss to suck in your breath, pressing your face into the crook of his neck, squeezing your eyes shut as his touch threatens to unravel you at the seams. 

He retracts his hand, the fingers sticky and coated with your juices, and laps at it like a kitten. "You're already so wet," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He rubs another finger against your core, and you dig your fingers into his shoulder blades, close to shuddering apart. "And I haven't even fucked you yet," he whispers in amusement, licking his lips. "D'you like it when I touch you there like that? Flick it ‘nd rub it ‘nd—"

You press your lips into his shoulder, mumbling _shut up and fuck me_ , and he grins with a feral edge to it. Your hands slip under the shirt and skitter up his sides, pulling the t-shirt off and roaming his bare chest.

He curls his fingers inside you, deeper and deeper until the tips skim the bundle of nerves in your clit, making you moan aloud. You think of his hands—long-fingered and pretty, all up inside your heat, and whimper. Vernon tilts up your chin with his free hand, making you look into his eyes, and dips his head to kiss you while simultaneously finger-fucking you. He buries his fingers into your pussy up to the hilt, drawing them out almost completely before shoving them in again, making you cry out, throwing your head back.

"Dirty," he says, then draws his hand out, despite your vocal protests. He runs his knuckles along your clit, spreading the slick heat along the slit, making you mewl in desperation. You’re not the only one suffering—you feel his hard-on through his jeans, straining to be freed, and grind on it. Vernon tips his head back with a groan, exposing the long line of his neck, gleaming with sweat and saliva. You plant a series of little kisses along it, unable to help yourself, and his free hand grips your hip, holding you in place.

"As much as I want to see you come around my fingers," he pants, licking his lips, "I wanna—ugh—want to be inside you when you do."

You draw back from the crook of his neck, leaning your forehead against his. Your nose knocks into his, making the cartilage bend, and he smiles—softly, warmly, with so much fondness it makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.

"Then what are you waiting for?" you whisper, and the smile turns wolfish.

He flips you over, gently, _gently_ pressing you against the arm of the couch. Your fingertips travel down the planes of his chest to his abdomen and then his jeans, which you undo quickly and give an almighty yank at the collective band of his jeans and underwear, making his boxers snag around one ankle. "You got protection?" you ask, and he flips his jeans over to bring out his wallet, and takes out a condom from inside, waving it in the air.

"Always prepared," he says with a silly smile, which makes you laugh.

"Didn't expect you to be a boy scout," you say.

He rolls the condom down his length, then winks at you. "I _am_ full of surprises."

He leans over you, aligning the tip of his cock with your entrance, and then pushes inside you.

The movement is so sudden that you arch up against the couch with a gasp, the line of your body pressing against his. He kisses your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below your ear, and bucks his hips into yours. Your hand snakes up his sides and slides into his hair, pressing his face to the crook of your neck, and you push your hips against his needily, gasping when he hits your sweet spot. “Vernon,” you whisper throatily into his ear, clutching at his shoulders, and he groans weakly against your neck.

His breath is coming in pants too, getting harsher by the second. His thrusts start becoming sloppy, and he uses his free hand to rub circles into your clit, elevating your pleasure. "Holy fuck, babe, you're so _tight,_ ” he mumbles in awe, pressing unrelenting openmouthed kisses to your jaw, where his breath tickles your nape and makes something in your abdomen tingle like ice and lightning.

He rolls his hips against yours, and you arch up to meet every single one of his thrusts until they start getting messy and untimed, harsher and more desperate. You reach your high first, a starburst of fire burning into your eyelids when you close your eyes, and he comes not much later, finishing with a cry of your name. He collapses on top of you, pressing his lips to your throat, right above your pulse.

“I know you’re, like, naked and everything right now,” he murmurs, “but, god, you look so beautiful like this.”

You laugh, dazed, and press your nose into the crown of his head. He wraps his arms around you and folds you into him. The two of you lie in that position for a few moments, chests heaving, catching your breaths as the euphoria subsides into something sober yet sweet.

“So,” he says, as you absently draw circles into the taut skin of his shoulder, his nose knocking against the side of your neck.

“So,” you say.

“We should probably talk.”

You tilt your head back, letting it hit the arm of the couch. He brushes his fingertips deliberately along the v of your abdomen, and you lift yourself up with difficulty, and nod. “Probably,” you mutter, reluctant.

“But first—” He props himself up by the elbows and looks back up at you, smiling bright as the sun.

You cock an eyebrow.

“Go again?” he asks.


End file.
